Private Lancer, 83rd Indiana (1st in the Vicksburg series)
by PollyVictorian
Summary: In 'The Escape', we learn that Scott was at Vicksburg during the war and that he and Dan Cassidy were in the 83rd. There were two "83rd" regiments at Vicksburg: the 83rd Ohio and the 83rd Indiana. But how did a Boston boy come to be in one of these regiments?


"Private Lancer!"

One of the two enlisted men busy cleaning their rifles glanced at his companion. The second man made no sign of having noticed the sergeant's words. It was only when his friend nudged him that Scott looked up, then jumped to attention as the sergeant shouted his name again.

"Private Lancer, you need to get one thing clear. You may be a volunteer but you are a soldier in the United States Army and are required to obey Army rules. That includes immediate response when you're addressed by a superior officer and immediate obedience to any orders given. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again." A disparaging grunt was the only response to Scott's abject apology as the sergeant turned and strode off.

Scott had never shaken in his shoes, but Sergeant Stevenson could bring him close to it. There was no code of Boston good manners guiding the sergeant's speech, and no subtle respect for Harlan Garrett's grandson underlying his attitude. A green recruit got no leeway from this NCO.

Private McRae grinned. "A new name takes some getting used to, hey?"

"I guess so," was all Scott replied.

A bugle sounded from the other end of the camp.

"That's supper. C'mon, let's get some grub." McRae pulled a tin plate and cup from out of his pack and led the way to the mess tent.

Scott was silent as he got his share of something the cook called stew and found a seat on a fairly comfortable log beside his friend. As had happened more than once in the past few weeks, a sense of unreality gripped him. What was he doing here, a Harvard scholar and Boston gentleman eating 'grub' off a tin plate? He gave a wry smile at his own thoughts. The sergeant had been right, he was a volunteer; he was here by his own choice and of his own free will.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Something in the newspaper had agitated Harlan Garrett on that July morning. That was remarkable in itself; Scott had rarely known his grandfather agitated. Always firmly in control of circumstances and of himself, it took a great deal to shake the elder Garrett's composure.

"Is there anything serious in the news, sir?" Scott didn't dare to make his question any more direct.

Harlan Garrett hesitated, as if to dismiss Scott's question, then seemed to change his mind.

"Yes, Scotty, there is something very serious. You'll no doubt hear of it for yourself quite soon. The government has decided to introduce conscription."

"That is a serious step for the country, sir," agreed Scott. His grandfather snorted.

"It's not the country I'm thinking about, it's you, boy. You'll be eighteen next year. This may affect you – you might be dragged into this war."

"I intend to enlist anyway, Grandfather, if the war is still going on." There, he'd said it, the declaration that, for three or four months now, he'd been looking for a chance to make. Harlan Garrett stared at him in a moment of amazement that turned immediately to steeled determination.

"You will not! I will not have you risking your life in a war to keep a pack of Southern cotton growers in the Union."

"I believe there's more to the war than that, sir," Scott responded quietly.

"Well, I'm not going to get into an argument on politics. I forbid you to enlist, Scott Garrett, and that's an end of it. I know you won't take such a step without my permission. You've always been a dutiful grandson, Scotty, and I can be confident you'll obey me in this."

"I have a duty to my country too, sir, no matter what the politics behind the war may be."

Harlan frowned.

"I tell you once more, Scotty, I forbid it." His expression changed from enforcing master to benign parent. "You wouldn't do anything so foolish, I'm sure. I have full confidence in you, Scotty," he repeated.

Scott said no more. He didn't want to quarrel with his grandfather, the only family he had. When he came up to military age, they could discuss it again. Or this development of military conscription might make discussion academic.

Nothing more was said in the Garrett household about military service for several weeks; indeed, it seemed to Scott that his grandfather tried to avoid any mention of the war at all. It was in early September that Harlan Garrett returned to his mansion one evening clearly pleased with himself. He told the news to his grandson after dinner.

"Scotty, I have made arrangements just in case you get caught up in this blasted conscription business come your birthday. I've found a young man who will act as your substitute if you're called up. So that's settled. No more need to worry."

Scott was still for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath and said, "No, Grandfather, I will not allow it."

Harlan gaped. "You will not allow it! It is not your decision to make, Scotty. I have made the decision. You're surely not going to defy me?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I must. I cannot allow another man to perhaps be killed through taking my place. If you sent a substitute, I would enlist anyway, as a volunteer."

Harlan shook his head. "I can hardly believe this is my grandson speaking. The Scott Garrett I've raised as a son would never disobey me in this manner. If you should go ahead and join up against my wishes, make no mistake, I would take steps to get you out. I have sufficient influence to do it. I'm acquainted with General McClellan, remember, not to mention my friendship with Mr Seward. It would only take a word to either of them to make sure that if the name Scott Garrett appears in any volunteer list, you'll be sent home well before you go into any battle zone, so you can give up any such quixotic notion."  
Scott rose.

"I have to leave early for college in the morning, so I'll say good night, sir."

"Good night, Scotty. Think things over when you're at college and you'll see that I'm acting for the best. I'll see you next weekend."

Scott merely nodded and left the room. He didn't trust himself to say anything more or to stay longer with his grandfather.

He had never opposed his grandfather before and it felt wrong. It was almost as his grandfather had said – as if he was not the person, not the grandson, not the Scott Garrett he had always been. The question of which duty was greater – to his grandfather or to his country – was one he had been struggling to answer to himself.

But a substitute? No, there was no question there. He could not and would not send another man to do his work. The only question was: how to forestall such an action on his grandfather's part? That was the only thing he would be thinking over.

.

If Scott thought getting back to college would let him take his mind off the dispute with his grandfather, he was wrong. Perhaps he was just over-attuned to the subject, but it seemed to him that everyone he spoke to the next day had something to say about enlistment or the war. It was capped off by a visit from Tice McRae that evening, in his lodgings.

"Just come to say good-bye, Garrett. I'm heading back to Indiana in the morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Tice, we'll miss you. What's happened – not bad news from home, I hope?"

"No, I've decided to enlist.," his friend replied. "I've been thinking about it for a while, then I had a letter from my cousin this morning. He's just joined the new regiment, the 83rd Indiana Infantry, it's called. I've made up my mind to go back home and join it, too."

"But you're under age," Scott pointed out. "You're the same age as me." That was almost exactly true; Tice's birthday was the day after Scott's. They had had a joint birthday party at college, starting in the evening of Scott's birthday and going on until after midnight, to include Tice's.

"That doesn't matter. My cousin's six months younger than I am. The recruiting officers don't ask unnecessary questions. If a fellow's tongue slips and he says eighteen instead of seventeen, they don't quibble. They're just glad to have as many men as they can get."

"What time are you leaving?" Scott found himself asking.

"I'll be catching the nine o'clock train. Want to come down and see me off?"

"I might do that," Scott could feel his pulse racing. "Yes, I'll see you in the morning, Tice." Scott waved his friend off, then went back to his room to think. To reason with himself. To try to talk himself out of the idea that wouldn't go away.

When Scott greeted Tice on the railway platform the next morning, he was carrying a bag and had a train ticket in his hand.

"Do you think an Indiana regiment would take a Bostonian, McRae?" Tice's face lit up.

"I reckon they will, Garrett. We'll make a good Hoosier out of you!"

.

Scott thought he'd better make a clean breast of things to Tice. As the train steamed west on the first stage of the journey, he admitted that his grandfather was against him enlisting and was likely to have him traced.

"He said that if the name Scott Garrett appeared in any volunteer list, he'd have me brought back home. He could do it, too, especially with me being under enlistment age."

"Then sign up under another name," said Tice. "Lots of fellows do, for all sorts of reasons."

"Bad reasons, mostly," Scott responded. "It's enough that I'll be lying about my age without lying about my name as well. And what if it was found out?"

"No reason it should get found out, any more than you being officially too young. No-one's going to send to Boston for your birth certificate to check your age or your name."

"They'd have to send to California, not Boston," remarked Scott. Then he started. His words had brought something to mind..

"Really? You were born in California? That makes you more Western than me," grinned Tice. "But anyhow, if you don't want to lie about your name, I guess you'll just have to take your chances and hope your grandfather doesn't send Pinkerton's out after you." Scott shook his head.

"I won't have to lie, after all. I've just remembered another name I can honestly use."

Yes, that was it – use the name he'd been born with. No deceit in that; it was his legal name, after all. And in a way, it would release him from obedience to his grandfather. "I forbid you to enlist, Scott Garrett," had been his grandfather's words. Well, Scott Garrett would not enlist. The name Scott Garrett would not appear among the roll of volunteers.

It was Scott Lancer who would join the United States Army.

LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

It had been surprisingly easy. He hadn't even, technically, had to lie about his age. Tice had given his details to the recruiting officer first, putting his date of birth back a year. When asked for his own date of birth, Scott had given the day and month, and then remarked that he was one day older than his friend. And no-one had asked why a California-born lad with a Boston accent was joining an Indiana regiment. As Tice had said, they were just glad to have one more man.

He'd left a note for his grandfather with his landlady's boy – a cheeky imp who'd been happy to promise not to post it until Thursday once Scott had given him a half-dollar. In the note, Scott had simply stated that he was enlisting but gave no details of where or when. Once the regiment received the order to move, Scott would write to Harlan Garrett, telling him where he was and in which unit. He hoped that enough time had passed, and the regiment he'd joined was far enough away from Boston, for his grandfather to be reconciled to the fact of his enlistment.

He got on well with the down-to-earth Indiana boys who were now his comrades; good fellows all of them, even when they couldn't quite hide their grins at his fine Eastern speech. He'd struck up a friendship almost immediately with Corporal Cassidy, himself a Harvard graduate a few years older than Scott and already married to a pretty young woman whose picture he showed every chance he got.

But the change to army life was not an easy one, for all that. Not just the army clothes, the army tents, the army food – hard enough for the Western farm boys to adjust to; far harder for a boy raised in the luxury of a Boston mansion. It was more than that. He had never realized until now how much respect he had always been treated with, simply by virtue of being Harlan Garrett's grandson. There was none of that here. He was no longer a Harvard scholar, a Boston gentleman, or a scion of a wealthy family, just a soldier on a soldier's pay. Any respect he got, he would have to earn.

And, although only he knew it, he was no longer his grandfather's dutiful, obedient grandson. Still a grandson, yes, that tie of blood and affection would never be broken, he hoped. He doubted he would have had the courage to take this step of defiance if he had not been sure, deep down, that his grandfather would in time forgive him. But the step had been taken and one bond had been broken. He could never again be quite the same the same grandson, quite the same Scott Garrett, as before.

Yes, he was a different person in this different life. It was fitting he should have a different name.

But it was going to take some getting used to.


End file.
